


Wings Of Desire

by strangeandcharm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Whump, Demons, Fallen Castiel, Hurt Castiel, M/M, Torture, Violence, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:22:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just after the season eight finale. Castiel may be human but he still has wings – valuable wings, at that. This hasn't escaped the notice of the demon world, and they want them very badly.</p><p>Note: I don't know anything about season nine, so there are no spoilers.</p><p>THIS NOW HAS A SEQUEL! <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1002759">Wing Man</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings Of Desire

 

 **Warnings:** Castiel whump, which involves violence and a little bit of torture.

 

 

 

 

Marco follows orders. He isn't a thinker. He leaves the thinking to the demons above him: the ones who know things way above his pay grade.

The ones who deal with the King of Hell himself. Crowley.

Marco has never met Crowley, and if he prayed – which he most certainly doesn't – he'd pray never to meet him at all. He's witnessed too many of his colleagues sent off on missions for the Boss, never to return. Some died after meeting the Winchester brothers, two humans with a free pass to torment demons and make everybody's lives miserable, or at least, that's what Marco thinks. He doesn't quite get why the Boss hasn't killed them yet, but then again, he's not a thinker. That's for Crowley to do. Or not do, as the case may be.

Others – many, many more – have died after tangling with angels. Marco _hates_ angels. Just the word makes his borrowed flesh crawl, even as he feels the soul trapped in there with him leap in hope at it. _Angel_. Such a simple word but it means so very much.

When Marco heard that he was going to have to capture an angel, his first thought was that someone was yanking his chain. When Sally – the demon above him, the one who actually talks to Crowley – assured him that it was a genuine order, Marco had assumed that this was the end of him. One palm slammed on his forehead, two smoking eyes and then... that's all, folks.

But now he's got the angel in front of him, things are different. He feels powerful. This skinny streak of angel-piss isn't going to get the better of him. He's got it under control and he's damn thrilled about it, too.

Course, it helps that this angel isn't really an angel any more.

Its name is Castiel, and even Marco's heard of this one. This is the angel that defied Heaven and helped the humans, and this is the angel that swallowed all the souls in Purgatory (including, Marco assumes, many members of his own demon family, which kind of hurts his head when he thinks about it, so he doesn't, like always). This is the angel who let the Leviathans into the world, which actually doesn't bother Marco because during that year there hadn't been many orders from the Boss. So he'd chilled out, waiting for those Winchesters to solve the problem. And they had, like always. It had been nice to have a break.

Since then, things have been busy. Marco hasn't really been in the thick of it; at one point he found himself rounding up a group of wayward nuns in Saskatoon, of all places, but otherwise he's just been standing around, waiting for orders, watching everyone else scurrying off left, right and center to do the Boss's bidding.

But now it's his turn, and he's done it, alright.

Castiel is kneeling on the concrete floor, staring up at him with hatred and shivering in the cold like the pathetic human wretch that he is. Marco can't sense an ounce of angel in him. He's human, or at least seems to be, and he's not giving any indication otherwise. Crowley told them that the light show they'd all seen a few days back had been all the angels falling from Heaven and their wings burning off in the atmosphere, kind of like those meteors you see on YouTube captured on shaky cellphone video. But this angel was different: he'd been thrown down to Earth as a human, which means that his wings must be still inside him somewhere – unburned, massive, feathery wings that are now the only angel wings anywhere in existence. Well, if you don't count the angel who emptied out Heaven in the first place, and he's locked in there, according to Crowley.

(Marco first heard that angel was Megatron and spent ages wondering why a Transformer was in Heaven before Sally had batted him on the back of his head and told him it was _Metatron_. He'd felt pretty dumb, but apparently he wasn't the only one confused, so that kind of made him feel better.)

“Are you going to kill me or not?” the former angel at his feet says, his voice nothing but a growl. He doesn't seem scared at all. The fact he isn't scared kind of pisses Marco off, so he slaps him hard around the face and watches him hit the floor in a heap of arms and legs. It actually hurts his hand, and he looks at his palm in surprise and then remembers, belatedly, that his orders are not to hurt his prisoner too badly. He's human now, after all, and humans are fragile.

Oops.

But the guy sits upright again defiantly, blood trickling from his nose. He spits out a mouthful of red and glares up at him. “Once I could have killed you with a touch,” he says, sounding pretty damn angry. “Just because I can't do that any more doesn't mean you'll live through this.”

“What are you gonna kill me with? A glare?” Marco replies, annoyed.

Castiel looks away, licking blood off his lip. “Where is Crowley? I assume he wants to gloat in person.”

“Yeah, like you're that important,” Marco shrugs, picking up his prisoner's wrist and slapping a handcuff on it. He pulls him over to a pillar in the center of the room, yanks his other hand around it and cuffs his wrists together, so he's facing the pillar with his back to the room. So far, so good. The runt hadn't even struggled, obviously realizing that it's totally pointless. For a moment, Marco wonders what it would be like to be an all-powerful almost-deity one day and a crappy little human the next. He shudders, the thought freaking him out.

Castiel tugs on the cuffs and sighs; it's irritating that he hasn't looked or sounded scared, not even when Marco had cornered him in the alleyway and thrown the bag over his head. (Humans can be found through spells, especially fresh humans who haven't inked-up yet.) So far, Castiel simply seems... annoyed. As though all of this is a stupid inconvenience. Perhaps, Marco ponders, he hasn't had time to adjust to being human yet. The doofus probably still thinks he's invincible.

Unable to help himself, he grabs the little finger on Castiel's left hand and snaps it backwards cruelly. And... okay. Ex-angels scream just as loud as humans, then. And perhaps the bastard realizes he's helpless now, after all.

Marco pulls the only chair in the room over from a corner, the feet scraping on the floor all the way. He sits down, opening the book. This is the bit he hasn't been looking forward to: reading Latin isn't his strong suit. But hey, if the Boss commands it, he must do it. Telling the King of Hell that you don't want to spend hours on end chanting a spell isn't really wise. Sally had told him that Crowley demanded good results here, and good results are what Marco is going to get.

He begins to read aloud. The words are unfamiliar and test his tongue, but they repeat every page or so and he gets used to saying them. He reads for a long, long time without taking his eyes off the pages, and it isn't until he has to stop and take a gulp from the flask of bourbon in his pocket that he glances over at the guy who isn't an angel any more.

Castiel is panting and pale, staring at him in horror.

“You like this, huh?” Marco asks, grinning. “An angelic bedtime story, just for you.”

“Wh-where did you get this spell?” Castiel asks, his voice low and, yes, for the first time, scared.

“How the hell should I know? I just read what they give me.” Marco flicks back to the start of the book and lifts it again. “Feelin' feathery yet?”

Castiel sucks in a breath, shrinking backwards as far as his cuffs will let him. Marco chuckles. He doesn't quite understand what's going on here, only that this human who used to be an angel still has those wings hunkered down somewhere deep inside him and this spell will bring them out. Apparently it might take a while; those feathery bastards are almost entirely lost. Hell, Marco's not even sure they really _are_ there. Crowley could be wrong. Not that the Boss would ever believe it, of course. If nothing happens here, Marco has a feeling he'll take the blame for it, so he'll get those motherfucking wings out whether it kills him.

He looks across at the former angel again. “How many feathers do you think there are in your wings, anyhow?” he asks. “You've got a goldmine on your back, and we want it. One feather is worth more on the black market than a truckload of human souls. And they're ours now.”

Castiel swallows. Then he clenches his fists, wincing as his little finger won't move. “Fuck you,” he declares, and Marco wonders if it's the first time he's ever sworn in his righteous little life.

“You wish,” he mutters, and goes back to reading out the spell.

 

* * *

 

It takes three whole days, and Marco keeps on reading. He becomes a little transfixed by the spell in the end, the whole thing memorized through repetition, and he speaks the words and watches in fascination as the former angel cuffed to the post in front of him finds it harder and harder to cope.

First Castiel starts to shake, which isn't really a surprise because the cellar they're in is pretty cold and Marco removed the guy's coat, jacket and shoes before bringing him in here. He can see nipples poking up hard through Castiel's white shirt and feels rather proud that he can't feel the cold himself; or that he can ignore it, at least. But anyway, the next thing that happens is Castiel starts to sweat _buckets_ , panting and gasping as the water just about drips off him. His shirt sticks to him and his bare feet leave damp spots on the concrete, which kind of fascinates Marco because he didn't know that the soles of feet could sweat. Then again, he hasn't given it much thought before. He's not a thinker.

He's a speaker now, and he's clearly speaking the spell perfectly because after the shivering and the sweating Castiel starts moaning, sliding down the pillar to rest on his knees. His head falls forward onto the post and he shakes so hard that Marco can hear his forehead knocking on it. This happens on day two, and Marco thinks that the guy can't hold out for much longer, but he does.

It isn't until the third day that Castiel starts weeping. Well, in theory, anyway. He's human and hasn't drunk a thing since he arrived there, so he's dehydrated from lack of water as well as from all the sweating he's been doing. So it's weird watching him sniff and sob when his eyes are as dry as sand. Marco doesn't care, though, because he's got a good rhythm going with the spell and he just talks and talks and talks.

Finally, after 76 hours of solid chanting, the spell breaks his prisoner. Castiel's moans get louder and louder before he suddenly jerks forward, screams in wretched agony and then there's a flash of white light that hurts Marco's eyes. He turns away, placing his hands over his face and panicking: what if he's got more than just wings inside him? What if he's gonna go full-on angel and kill him? Then the light dims and everything goes quiet, except that Marco can hear Castiel making little, choking gasps.

He turns around. And blinks. In front of him is the pillar with Castiel chained limply to it, the same thing he's been staring at for days. But sprouting from the human's back are two absolutely _enormous_ black wings that almost fill the room. They're not erect – they're slumped either side of Castiel's body, looking dead and lifeless, much as he looks right now. Stunned, Marco has to gather himself together before he approaches. He prods Castiel with his foot and gets a small groan in return. The wings have popped right out from the gap between his shoulder blades, slicing through skin and shirt; there's blood everywhere. Studying his prisoner for a moment, checking he's not dying, Marco finally crouches and prods one of the wings.

“No,” moans Castiel, shifting, trying to lift it out of the way. He can't seem to do anything with it, which is good news, but he can still feel when he's touched. Marco wonders why this is, but doesn't think about it for too long.

He's got work to do.

“Good boy,” he says, patting Castiel on the head. “Good boy.”

Walking over to his bag, Marco pulls out a bottle of water and twists off the lid. He lifts Castiel's head and helps him drink some. It's a sign of just how messed-up the guy is that he doesn't fight or squirm at all: he just opens his mouth and gulps down the liquid desperately. Once he's finished the bottle, Marco tosses it to one side and pulls a key out of his pocket.

“Guess you're not goin' anywhere in this state, so I can trust you, right?” He unlocks the handcuffs and releases his prisoner's hands. His wrists are red and raw, which makes Marco smile, remembering his days in Hell. Ah, good times.

Castiel doesn't do anything once he's free: simply drops his hands to the floor and lies there, shivering. The movement sets up a quivering in those weird wings that makes them rustle. It's kind of creepy.

Marco drops the cuffs back in his bag and pulls out the hooks. Big and solid, they fit through loops on the walls via a length of chain that he can adjust as necessary. Marco walks over to Castiel once more and stares down at his wings, trying to figure out the best place to pin him.

“You're not gonna like this,” he gloats, amused, and bends over the middle of Castiel's left wing. He lifts it up – it's damn heavy – and Castiel wriggles away, trying to escape, but it's too late. Marco brandishes the hook, waves it in front of the angel's eyes and then shoves it deep into the flesh below the wingbone towards the tip of the wing.

The agonized noise that Castiel makes is absolutely fantastic. Marco laughs, enjoying himself, and yanks the wing upwards with the hook. Even with his demon strength it's a tough job, and by the time the wing is chest height he's struggling. Castiel is screaming and bucking his body, but his wing's barely moving at all, as though it's paralyzed; Marco wonders if it's a dead part of his anatomy now, like an appendix, still there but totally useless, only making its presence felt at all when it goes wrong. And having a large hook jammed through it must hurt like Hell, judging by Castiel's reaction. Marco laughs as he finally manages to lift the wing up to the loop on the wall, tying the wing to it with the chain.

He steps away, regarding his handiwork. Castiel's wing is impaled on the hook, lifted almost up to the ceiling. The angel staggers to his feet and tries to break free, but he can barely even reach the chain, let alone unhook himself, although it's funny to watch. Marco grins at him for a good few minutes before he sighs and reaches into his bag.

“Round two,” he declares, and approaches Castiel with another hook. This time his prisoner kicks out at him, punching with all of his might... which isn't much, really, given that he hasn't eaten for three days and is in so much pain. Plus that wing holds him still, with every movement pulling another cry from Castiel's lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” Marco grumbles, pushing Castiel to one side so that he can step behind him, ducking under the pinned wing. He picks up the second wing and Castiel yells, “No!” A punch connects with Marco's jaw so forcefully that his teeth rattle, which is one hell of a surprise. Annoyed but unhurt, Marco backhands Castiel across the face severely, turning away in disdain before he's even hit the floor. He jabs the end of the hook into the wing.

“Please, no!” Castiel moans, jerking on the floor.

Marco can't help it. He laughs.

 

* * *

 

It's been an entire day and Castiel is still shivering.

Marco sits and stares at him because he has nothing else to do. It's quite awe-inspiring, really, seeing an angel chained up in front of him, even if this guy isn't quite an angel any more. But whatever's going on with the human body attached to them, those wings are still there and they're spread-eagled either side of him, hanging off chains thanks to the hooks Marco has slid under each wingbone. The effect is pretty startling: Castiel looks as though he's a giant crow with a human body.

He can only do two things with his wings spread out like that: stand up or kneel down. Anything else is impossible, and Castiel certainly can't sleep without his weight hanging off the wings and hurting like Hell. It must be pretty damn uncomfortable, and occasionally Marco wonders if he should tie up Castiel's hands and make it worse, because the angel keeps stretching his arms out along the top of his wings and massaging them, feathers crumpling under his fingers, as though he's fending off cramps. Stopping him from doing that might cause more pain, but then again, Marco isn't really supposed to be torturing him. He's supposed to be keeping him alive.

Which reminds him. For the second time in two days, he approaches Castiel and hands him water. The angel stares at him suspiciously but takes it with a trembling hand, drinking in long, hungry gulps. Marco waits and takes back the bottle. Then he hands his prisoner an apple.

“Really?” Castiel says, staring down at it in confusion. “You're feeding me?”

“Gotta keep you healthy,” Marco tells him brightly. “You're a resource now.”

Castiel stares at him, perplexed. A shudder runs through him and he staggers a little, then pulls himself upright again. “What do you mean by that?”

Marco points at the enormous wings filling up all the space behind Castiel's back. “Those, dummy. They're our new bread and butter. We can sell feathers and corner the market. And if we keep you alive, well... it's an endless resource. They'll keep growing back.”

Castiel looks down at the apple and then back up at him. “I can't live like this,” he declares, shivering again. “You do know that, right? I'm human. We don't react well to torture. I will only survive a few weeks before a wound gets infected or I get hypothermia, or any number of other ailments. Humans are vulnerable.”

“Human? Coulda fooled me,” scoffs Marco, nodding at the wings.

“They're not really a part of me,” Castiel points out, frowning. “I don't know how they're here. I really don't.”

“If they're not a part of you, why did you scream like a baby when I strung you up?” Marco asks, then turns away. “Anyhow, as long as you've got feathers, my boss will be happy.”

“Do you always do what Crowley says? Don't you ever want to do your own thing?”

Oh, this was priceless. “Really, angel? Tryin' to talk me into disobeying? That's rich, coming from you.”

Castiel glares at him, shifting his bare feet on the cold floor. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that you disobeyed and you died. We all heard about it. Then you came back, and you died again, but first you betrayed your precious Winchesters. Then came the Leviathans, and after that you were fooled hook, line and sinker by Metatron. Now you're here. So yeah, I don't think free will has done you any favours, _Cas._ In fact, I think it made you dumb as a box of rocks.”

The angel drops his gaze, biting his lip. Marco wanders off, sitting back on his chair and picking up his cellphone. He frowns at the screen, reading a new text message. “Ah. Looks like they'll be here in an hour.”

“Who?” Castiel asks weakly, swinging a little on his hooks.

“The buyers,” Marco replies, and texts back his reply.

 

* * *

 

They're an odd bunch. Marco thinks that some are old gods, unable to use their own powers any more and in need of the magic of other creatures to provide their strength. Others are vampires, probably representatives of the Alpha Vampire that Marco hears about from time to time. Two are witches. Then there are the demons who are nearly as high up in the demonic hierarchy as Crowley. Marco wonders if they're buying feathers to use in spells to overthrow him, and he wonders if he should stop them, but it's not his job to think. It never is. He just lets them study the wings without making a comment.

Crowley probably knows they're here, anyway. He knows a lot more than Marco does.

Castiel backs away from the visitors as far as he can, which isn't very far because the movement yanks at his wings, threatening to tear even bigger holes in his flesh. He grimaces as hands caress his feathers. He looks murderous when the guests talk about him as though he isn't even in the room. He's an object, nothing more than a repository of feathers, and they don't give a damn if he's alive or dead. Castiel clearly hates every one of them and wants to kill them all with his bare hands – which are free, of course – but he also knows that he hasn't the faintest chance of achieving anything if he tried. He's outclassed, outgunned and helpless, and Marco kind of gets a kick out of watching him struggle with his new-found impotence.

“They're good feathers,” observes one guy, who Marco guesses must be a South American god just from the clothes he's wearing. He looks as though he's been shopping at Peruvian & Fitch. “I like how they shine.”

“I wonder if they've still got some Grace trapped in them,” comments one of the witches, stroking Castiel's wing the wrong way on purpose, making him squeeze his eyes shut and bite down on his lip. Marco tries to hide his smile: that must really piss the angel off.

One of the demons turns to Marco. “How much did Crowley say he wants for them?”

“It's negotiable,” Marco replies, remembering what Sally had taught him to say. “Just know that the longer flight feathers are the most valuable, and he isn't willing to let those go without some serious renumeration.”

All eyes turn to the long, sleek feathers that arc down from the top of Castiel's wings. They're at least four feet long and, Marco has to admit, pretty fine to look at.

“Hmm,” says the South American god. “I've seen better.”

“Yeah, right. Cause angel flight-feathers are as common as muck,” snaps the demon. “No you haven't. And you certainly haven't seen black feathers. I know I never have.”

“That's true,” chips in one of the vampires, gruffly. “I've never seen black before, either.”

“You! Angel!” A woman who Marco has decided is some kind of Spanish deity stands directly in front of Castiel. She clicks her fingers in front of his face to get his attention. “Angel! Look at me!”

Slowly, Castiel looks up at her, scowling. “I'm human,” he hisses, and there's murder glinting in those bright blue eyes of his.

“Semantics,” the woman replies, shrugging. “Why are your wings black? We want to know. The color adds uniqueness, but it could be a drawback when we're spellcasting.”

Castiel's eyes flick around the group. He's pale and tired, blue circles under his eyes. His hair is sticking up in tufts and there's blood caked under his nose and lip from the two times Marco slapped him. He shouldn't be able to command anything in his condition, but somehow, when he speaks, everyone in the room falls silent.

“I burned my wings flying through the flames of Hell to rescue a human soul,” he says. “He was the Righteous Man and he stopped Lucifer from destroying this world you all so happily live in. While you all argue and bicker and discuss money and spells, creatures like myself fight for the survival of this planet.” He spits on the floor. It's bloody. “You are a disgrace. I look at you and wonder why we bothered.”

A silence falls. Then the woman turns to Marco and says, “His wings are burned. This affects the price, no? Damaged goods?”

 

* * *

 

When they've gone, Marco feels happy, knowing he did a good job. They all want feathers. Crowley will make a fortune, and not just in money. Marco casts his eyes over the wings before him and guesses that there are at least a thousand feathers there, probably many more. As long as this angel is here, and under his control, Crowley will be delighted.

Perhaps Marco isn't scared to meet the King of Hell after all.

“You did good,” he observes, running a hand through Castiel's feathers because he wants to know how it feels. The wing jerks beneath him as Castiel pulls back, but it can't go anywhere. “I was worried you'd scream and shout and try to attack them, but you behaved like a good little angel.”

Castiel sniffs, looking across the room blankly. “I am anything but a _good little angel._ ”

“Till today,” Marco corrects, still playing with the feathers. They're so shiny.

“I'm human,” Castiel sighs, and his head drops.

“Do you, like, preen these things?”

Castiel doesn't answer.

“I kinda wish I had wings,” Marco says, reluctantly stepping back.

He's distracted, too relaxed, and so when Castiel lunges at him he is completely surprised. An arm snakes around his neck and he's pulled against Castiel's chest tightly, Castiel's spare hand jerking his arm up behind him painfully.

Fuck. This puny, skinny human has him in a goddamn choke-hold!

“What on earth do you think you're doing?” he gasps, shocked, and then he starts to laugh.

Castiel isn't strong enough to hold him for long. He must know it, but he doesn't move. “If you let me go I will reward you more than Crowley ever could,” he growls.

“Right,” Marco chokes, still chuckling. “What with?”

Castiel shudders before hissing, “Feathers.”

For a moment, just a moment, Marco is tempted. There are enough feathers on Castiel's wings to finance an entirely new existence for him. He could have whatever he wanted. He could probably find a spell to take down Crowley and become the King of Hell himself. The world would be his, because those feathers are the only angel feathers on Earth now and probably forever.

But he sighs, knowing that it can never happen. He's not a thinker. He couldn't plan an escape and stay on the run, or set up traps for Crowley's vengeance-seeking hordes. He takes orders. That's what he's done all his life, and that's not going to change now.

“You can keep your fucking feathers,” Marco says, and twists out of Castiel's grip with barely any effort at all. He takes Castiel's left forearm in his hands and snaps it, the sound of the bone breaking ricocheting off the walls of the cellar. Castiel bellows in pain, collapsing to his knees, and Marco steps backwards, looking down at him with amusement.

“I'm supposed to keep you healthy, you know. You're really not helping.”

Castiel curls over, cradling his arm, and the wings spread above him tug uselessly at their chains.

 

* * *

 

Marco doesn't really get bored. The guy he's possessing does, however, and Marco listens to him sometimes when there isn't much else going on. “Where am I?” his host asks. “Why are you still sitting in this room? When will you let me go? What are you?”

His vessel's name is Jeff Summers and he's an architect. Marco chose him because he looked comfortable, not because he was handsome. And he'd been right: Jeff is the most comfy vessel he's had in years, and the last two months have actually been quite pleasant. Some humans fight and burn, scratching at him, clawing for freedom. Jeff is so stunned by this turn of events that he simply asks meaningless questions and waits. But he also gets bored, and some of this boredom sometimes seeps into Marco, because he's bored now too.

It's been four days since the buyers checked Castiel over. Since then Castiel has refused to eat, although he drinks whenever Marco offers water; it's always easier to refuse food than water. Marco isn't really worried about it. It takes a long time to starve to death, and Castiel won't hold out that long.

He's a bit worried about his prisoner's wings, though. It could be his imagination, but they seem to have dulled, losing their shine. A few feathers have fallen to the floor. Marco picks them up and puts them somewhere safe, casting a cursory eye over the pools of blood that have gathered underneath the hook-wounds. They keep growing.

Castiel just hangs there, staring at nothing. He looks really crappy now, and Marco remembers how he'd said he would die eventually because he's a human. Marco isn't sure he really is a human, but it's hard to tell. He doesn't want him to die, though, because that would piss off Crowley. Perhaps this isn't such an easy job after all.

But right now, all he knows is that he's bored.

“Why did you disobey?” he asks. The guy's just hanging there. They may as well have a conversation.

Castiel shivers and doesn't answer.

“I heard that you did it because you wanted to fuck Dean Winchester,” Marco says. “I quite like that idea. An angel faggot and his human bitch.”

Castiel looks up at him, slowly. His eyes are red and unfocused; he hasn't slept in so long Marco wonders how he's even able to form words. “I disobeyed... because it was the right... thing to do,” he croaks.

“Uh-huh. Not because you wanted to bone that fine piece of human ass?”

“Dean and I are friends,” Castiel says, his voice so deep it's almost painful to hear. “I suppose you wouldn't... understand, being... a demon with no friends yourself.”

“Ouch, I'm wounded!” Marco chuckles, enjoying himself. “Some friend your Dean is, though. Where is he? He's left you to rot in this cellar.”

“He will find me,” Castiel mutters, shuddering. “He will. Although I do not... think I am... worth saving.”

“Because you destroyed Heaven,” Marco supplies helpfully. “Just the latest in a long line of fuck-ups from you.”

Castiel's head droops and he doesn't speak again. Marco isn't as bored any more. Angel-baiting has become his new hobby.

A loud knock on the room's metal door makes him jump. “Marco? Marco? You in there?”

“Yeah.” He gets up and opens the door. There are three demons standing outside, each wearing the body of a college football player, judging by their clothing and build. They're holding large rolls of tissue and bubble-wrap and look pretty stoked to be there.

“Hey,” Marco nods, letting them into the cellar. “You're here for the feathers?”

“Yeah. Boss says you're relieved for the night,” one of them tells him, dropping the bubble-wrap on the floor. “We've got this covered.”

“Man, what a pathetic angel this is,” says the biggest guy, stopping dead in front of Castiel. “I was expecting something a little... mightier.”

To Marco's surprise, Castiel lifts his head and spits, “Go screw yourself.”

“He's got attitude!” the demon laughs, and punches Castiel hard in the belly. The impact sends him shooting backwards, yanking on his wings in what must be an excruciating way. The angel curls over, gasping, as the demons laugh, Marco included.

“I think we should have some fun with him,” says the head demon, clapping his hands together. “I've always wanted to fuck-up an angel.”

“The Boss doesn't want him dead,” Marco warns, picking up his bag. “Be careful you don't do anything that could kill him.”

“Naw, he'll be fine. I left my angel blade at home,” grins one of the guys.

Marco laughs again, but he doesn't feel that his message has gotten across. “Seriously, I mean it. Crowley wants him alive so he can grow back new feathers in the future. If you kill him, he'll kill you. No joke. Don't injure him too badly.”

The three demons look a bit fed up, but they nod. “We'll do our best,” says the leader. Marco stares at him for a moment, wondering if he really means it, but these guys are above him on the ladder of power and he doesn't feel comfortable challenging him.

“Good,” is all he says, and he walks out of the cellar without looking back.

Shit, it's not as though he cares about the angel or anything.

 

* * *

 

Marco has a pretty nice evening, all in all. He goes to see a movie, has a tasty meal at a local Italian restaurant, then kills the waiter and manager when they complain about him walking out without paying the bill. He's still wiping blood off his hands onto his pants when he enters the abandoned office block with the angel in its cellar, and that's when he hears it screaming.

“Aw, fuck,” he mutters, walking faster. If those guys have done anything that'll kill Castiel, Crowley will rip him to shreds. And that's not just an expression – he really will. Marco only got out of Hell two months ago and he doesn't want to go back. He's paid his dues and it's been nice to see daylight again. Well, okay, perhaps he hasn't seen much daylight over the last week or so, but it's still nice to be out of the Pit for once.

He rushes past the demons stationed in the basement – the ones he never talks to, as they're simply muscle and below his notice – and barges into the cellar expecting to find Castiel in pieces on the floor. Instead he sees that he looks exactly how he left him; there's no extra blood staining his shirt or coated on his skin. He's screaming, though, low and loud, twisting and pulling on the chains holding his wings with such desperation it's almost exhilarating to watch.

“What the fuck are you doin' to him?” Marco barks over the noise.

Two of the demons are standing behind the prisoner. The leader is hefting a baseball bat. “Aw, come on,” he complains, looking pissed. “We were only breaking a few bones. It won't kill him!”

Marco looks closer. Castiel's right wing looks totally normal, but his left one is bent and broken. The huge wingbone running across the top of it is snapped in two in a V-shaped dent that points downwards. Blood is dripping on the concrete underneath it, so a bone must have broken through skin. The smaller wingbone which is arching up towards the hook and the wall looks different, too, pointing in two different directions. Marco can also see light through the hole the hook has made, proving that Castiel has pulled so hard on his wing that he's ripped through flesh as he's struggled to break free.

“What a fucking mess,” Marco spits, dropping his bag on the floor. “Don't you know that this guy is human now? Humans are _fragile_! If you hurt him he'll get sick and die from an infection or some shit like that.” It occurs to him that he's repeating what Castiel said to him a while back, and it annoys him.

Castiel stops screaming all of a sudden, his body going limp. Then he jerks awake again as the weight of his body tugs at his wings, no doubt causing him horrendous pain, but he doesn't make a noise. He just sways, eyes closed, breathing hard. He really does look pitiful, and Marco feels a weird surge of protectiveness. “Get away from him, you assholes,” he orders, beckoning. He doesn't care that they're his superiors any more.

The demons move away from the prisoner, chastened. “We thought if we broke his wings it wouldn't matter, cause they're the angel parts of him,” one of them explains.

“You didn't think at all, you prick,” Marco replies angrily. “Get the hell out of here!”

“Aw, for fuck's sake,” spits out the leader, but they lift up the carefully-wrapped bundles of angel feathers that they've harvested and leave the cellar. The smallest guy slams the door behind him grumpily, but Marco barely notices. He walks over to Castiel and lifts up his chin.

“How ya holdin' up?” he asks.

Castiel has just enough defiance left to jerk his chin away. He's gasping for breath, his eyes rolling in pain. His entire body is taut as a wire and his wing is trembling so hard that Marco can feel the vibrations on his hand. Tutting, Marco fetches him a bottle of water, which Castiel can't seem to fathom at first until Marco tilts his head back and pours it down his throat. The angel chokes but drinks. It's amazing, Marco thinks, just how often humans have to drink to feel healthy. Once a day really should be enough.

He moves sideways to inspect the wing, sliding fingers through feathers wet with blood. A sharp edge of bone has, indeed, poked through the flesh and is pointing down at the ground. The break is a serious one and Marco stares at it for a while, unsure about what to do. He moves upwards and inspects the second one, which seems much less severe. Here and there are bald patches where feathers have been removed. Marco wonders if it had hurt when they'd been plucked. Probably.

“Stay here,” he orders, chuckling at his own joke, and leaves Castiel alone for the first time in days.

 

* * *

He comes back with two chair legs that he snaps to the right length to use as splints on the injured wing. There are no bandages anywhere in the office block, so Marco thinks about it and realizes that he may as well just tie the splints in place with string-pulls from window blinds. That'll just have to do.

When he approaches the wing Castiel pulls away, his eyes wild. Marco almost wishes he could sedate him as the angel screams hoarsely and struggles, although his attempts to get away don't stop Marco from pulling and pushing the largest broken bones into place. When he _snaps_ the two ends of bone against each other, Castiel goes limp. Unfortunately for him, as his body falls his wings straighten as the full weight of the human attached to them pulls them taut. A few seconds later, Castiel is awake again, a cry gurgling on his lips, swinging wildly on the hooks and bleeding profusely from each wound.

Marco knows from his own experiences in Hell that this is a pretty impressive torture: not being able to fall unconscious when in excruciating pain is worse than the pain itself. A tiny twinge of pity sparks inside him and he pulls over a chair for Castiel to sit on, shaking his head at his own stupidity. “I'm going soft,” he mutters.

“Thank... you...” Castiel whispers as he sits, and damn if that doesn't make Marco feel even worse. He reaches out a hand and squeezes the arm he broke a few days back. Castiel yelps and drags his body away from him, then turns and retches water onto the floor. Which is gross, and Marco could've done without the smell of puke in this tiny room, given that it already stinks so badly of blood and there are no windows. That's what he gets for being kind. Fuck it.

He splints the second bone with no difficulties, staring at the blood all over those valuable feathers in consternation. It hits him that perhaps coating them in angel blood makes their magic stronger, and he's quite pleased with himself for making that connection even though it's most probably untrue. He'll cling to it anyway, just in case. He's hardly going to give these wings a sponge bath.

Castiel is unconscious by the time he's finished, his upper torso curled over on the chair which is now supporting him instead of the wings. Marco stares at him for a moment, annoyed with this whole situation, then steps outside to make a phone call.

Sally isn't impressed when he gives her the news. Those demons are _toast_.

 

* * *

Castiel doesn't open his eyes for a day and a half, which Marco reckons is a pretty impressive amount of time to sleep. Although “sleep” is probably the wrong word for it. During that time he's checked on the wings over and over, but they aren't healing. More feathers have drifted to the floor and they're no longer shiny at all. Not only that, but Castiel himself has started looking even worse: his skin is pale and clammy, he seems to be having trouble breathing and a few hours ago he started sweating. One of his wounds is infected, just as he'd said would happen.

Marco wonders how the King of Hell will punish him when his prize angel dies.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, stirring on the chair. His wings rustle as he moves and he gasps, his head snapping up as both consciousness and pain hit him like bricks. Marco watches impassively as the angel looks around him, eyes wide open in stunned amazement, before his body slumps as he remembers his situation. He looks over at his jailer with eyes that are glassy. He has the makings of a beard now and has lost a considerable amount of weight since Marco first chained him up.

“Water,” the angel asks. He says it as though he hates himself for even asking.

Sighing, Marco obliges. Castiel can't lift either hand now, much less his broken arm, so Marco has to stand there like a servant and hold the bottle for him while he drinks. It's galling. Once the guy is through, he walks away and sits down again. There's clearly no point in offering him food. He doesn't look as though he even has the strength to chew.

“I'm dying,” Castiel says, after a long silence.

Marco nods. “Yep. Don't seem like there's much I can do about that.”

A shudder tears through his prisoner, making him moan. “You... you could untie me,” he observes weakly.

“Yep,” Marco agrees again. “But I won't.”

Castiel closes his eyes. “You surprise me.”

The sarcasm makes Marco chuckle. “What was it like, bein' an angel?” he asks, after a few minutes have passed.

There's a long pause. Marco doesn't think he's going to get a reply until Castiel murmurs, “Empty.”

“So you prefer being human?”

“No.” Castiel coughs a little, squirming in his seat. He looks like he has the chills. Fever will do that.

“You didn't like being an angel and you don't like being human, huh?” Marco folds his arms. “Sounds like you'd be better off dead.”

“I don't disagree,” Castiel says. “But someone... keeps bringing me... back.”

“Yeah. Seems like God's got a hard-on for you.” Marco laughs at the shocked look Castiel throws him. “Come on, angel! You must have wondered why he keeps bringin' you back. You're his favorite!”

“I am most... certainly not,” Castiel amends, looking fierce all of a sudden. “He is... punishing me.”

Marco snorts. “Nope, I'm the one who's punishing you. Don't get confused.”

To his surprise, Castiel snorts too. “You're just an errand boy.”

“Ain't I just? I'm not arguing with you there. But I'm still over here and you're the one hangin' from two walls by your wingtips slowly dying on me.”

Castiel's head droops. “If there is a next time, perhaps... I will return... as an angel again.” His voice sounds wistful.

A beep interrupts him. Marco looks down to see a text message from Sally: _He's on his way!_

“Fuck,” he says.

Crowley is coming.

 

* * *

 

Right at the last minute, Marco remembers to remove the chair. Castiel falls roughly to his knees, crying out hoarsely as his wings snap taut. By the time Marco has placed the chair across the room and out of the way, he can hear voices outside as the demon guards stationed there part before the King of Hell. A second later, the door opens.

“Dear oh dear!” Crowley announces loudly, his face lighting up as he sees his prisoner. He barely even spares Marco a glance. “Just look at the state of _you!_ You're a real dog's dinner, Cas.”

Castiel tilts his head upwards, trying to get his eyes to focus. “I am... offended that you've only just... deigned me with your presence,” he pants. The words should probably sound defiant, but his voice is so wrecked that they don't have the desired effect.

Crowley laughs anyway, stepping forward to peer at the ruined wing. “Poor little birdie,” he grins. “I hope whoever snapped your wishbone remembered to make a wish.”

“That wasn't my fault,” Marco interjects, panic rising in his throat. “The guys you sent to collect the feathers got carried away.” He pauses before adding a hurried, “...Sir.”

Crowley finally turns to look him up and down. “And you are?” he asks flatly.

“Marco, sir. I've been watching him all week.” He feels sweat break out on his skin and his throat is suddenly dry. As Crowley continues to stare at him, he adds, “I recited the spell and brought out the wings.”

“So you did, so you did,” Crowley says thoughtfully, stepping back to look at them. He stares for a little while. “I seem to remember asking for the angel to be kept safe,” he observes mildly, in a tone that Marco recognizes as dangerous even though he's never met the Boss before. “And yet now I'm here, he appears to be half-dead.”

Marco opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and closes it again. He drops his head, subservient to the very marrow of his host.

And then, just like that, the threat is gone. Crowley's voice grows lighter and he even smiles. “Not that I can blame you, of course. He's an annoying little fellow, is our Castiel. I've wanted to slap him a few times myself.” He leans forward, lowering himself so that he can look the angel in the eyes. Castiel is still panting with pain but he meets the gaze of the King of Hell without an ounce of fear. Marco has to admit it, he's impressed. Even he hadn't been able to do that, and he's on Crowley's side.

“You double-crossed me,” Crowley tells his prisoner. “You ballsed up my plans over and over again. You and those bloody Winchesters kept popping up and ruining things like that sodding rat in _Caddyshack_. I should tear your wings off myself and stick them up your jacksy.”

Castiel blinks at him slowly. Then, to Marco's amazement, he smiles.

“Gopher,” he croaks.

Crowley frowns at him. “What?”

“It was... a gopher, not a rat, in _Caddyshack_.”

Still Crowley frowns. “A gopher... What... How the hell do you know that? You're a bleedin' _angel_ , not a film critic!”

Castiel smirks, licking cracked lips. “Dean told me... that it is an all-time cinema... classic.”

Crowley leans back and runs a hand down his face. “Americans,” he sighs. “A film about a gopher on a golf course is a _classic_.”

Caddyshack _is actually really funny,_ thinks Marco's host, but he shoves the guy down inside him again so he can concentrate on what's going on. So far, he's a bit confused. Why hasn't Crowley punished him for allowing Castiel to become so injured?

“I assume... your customers... want their money back?” Castiel grinds out, through teeth that have started chattering with fever.

“Oh, so you knew, did you?”

Castiel snorts and turns his head. “Yes.”

“Why, you little minx,” Crowley says, almost fondly. Then he lifts an arm and punches Castiel on the jaw so hard that the force throws him backwards further than his battered left wing can handle. The hook holding him upright moves through his flesh and actually makes a ripping sound as it goes, like a zipper being unzipped. Blood splashes up the wall under the chain. Then the hook reaches the edge of his wing and he's free; the wing comes tumbling on top of him, table-leg splints and all, as he hits the floor. Castiel doesn't make a sound, so Marco can only assume that he's either unconscious or he's had the breath knocked out of him. The other, undamaged wing remains chained fast, pulled ruler-straight by Castiel's fallen body.

“Angels!” Crowley snaps, clearly annoyed. He looks across at Marco as he shakes his hand, rubbing his knuckles. “Don't worry, Mario. I'm not stringing you up just yet. Cas here can die for all I bloody care.”

Marco ignores the fact the Boss gets his name wrong to ask an important question. “Was there something wrong with the feathers, sir?”

“Duds,” Crowley sniffs, straightening his tie. “We might as well have sold a flock of seagulls. This pathetic heap of humanity has all the angelic-ness of a doormat.”

Marco is stunned. “But... but he has _wings_ ,” he declares, unwilling to believe that all of this hard work has been for nothing.

“Yes, and you have an appendix. And tonsils. And that little bone at the base of your spine that used to be a tail. Useless, but still part-and-parcel of being human.” Crowley narrows his eyes, and suddenly his voice is dangerous. “He's given me a bad name as a businessman.”

“I'm sorry, your majesty,” Marco says nervously.

“You weren't to know. None of us were.” Crowley turns and looks down at Castiel's crumpled, unmoving form. His head is hidden under the feathers of his broken wing, and he seems to be unconscious. Crowley steps forward – standing on the tip of the wing brutally, as though he's trying to see if Castiel is faking or not – and stares closely at the mess before him. “I love how you've tried to fix his wing, Mario. Aren't you our very own Florence Nightingale? Did you read him bedtime stories as well? Give him a neck massage and an erotically-charged sponge bath?”

Marco bristles at that, but stays silent. He's starting to think he's getting out of this alive, and he doesn't want to jinx himself.

Crowley chuckles and says quietly, “Poor Castiel. Doomed to die over and over, and he always comes back as a bigger pillock than the last time.” Then he straightens, turning his back on the prisoner as though he's too beneath him to consider any more. “Stay here a few more days, assuming he lives that long. I have some loose ends to figure out with our disgruntled customers, and some of them may want his head on a stick before this is over.”

He doesn't close the door behind him. That's for lesser demons to do. Marco waits a while, hearing the King of Hell's footsteps move away, then closes the door with such a huge rush of relief that he almost, but not quite, bursts into tears.

 

* * *

 

The day drags on and then the next one drags, too. Marco stops giving Castiel water and settles down to surf the internet on his phone. He knows he'll be called to do something at some point, but he's hardly going to waste any effort on looking after his prisoner in the meantime. The angel... _human_... doesn't do much except shiver and moan anyway. He doesn't even ask him for a drink; he simply lies on the floor and murmurs the occasional sentence as the fever works through him.

By early evening, not that Marco can tell what time it is in this windowless hole, he starts smelling the infection from the wound on Castiel's wing. To his nose, it's sweet and strangely pure. It reminds him of Hell and a woman he tortured for a month before she gave up and offered to torture others in return.

Sometimes he misses those days so much.

What's kind of weird is how often Castiel mumbles Dean Winchester's name as he groans and twitches on the floor. Marco listens closely but he never hears him say “Sam”; it's all about the other guy as far as Castiel is concerned. It makes him smile because he'd taunted Castiel about wanting to fuck Dean and, from the sound of this, the angel did betray Heaven because he was hung up on him after all.

It's funny. Marco wishes his prisoner was at least a little lucid so he could yank his chain about it, but the bastard wouldn't know “lucid” now if it bit him on the ass. Oh well.

 

* * *

Things are boring, and then they aren't. Marco is reading up about the forthcoming _Transformers_ movie and wondering if he should switch his cell provider to get a faster internet signal when he hears shouts and screams outside the cellar door. They're under attack!

He doesn't have a single weapon in his bag and it doesn't sound as though things are going well with the demons outside anyway, so he does the only thing he can think of to do: he hides.

There's a closet built into the wall behind him and Marco leaps into it without a shred of shame, twisting as he closes the door. There are small slats cut into it at the same level as his eyes and he looks out, terrified, as the yells of pain and outrage beyond the four walls of this room reach a crescendo. Then there's a dreadful, hollow silence.

He gulps in a deep breath of fear as the cellar door opens.

“ _CAS!_ ” bellows a voice, and a human jumps forward to crouch on the floor beside the former angel. Another human follows, a knife in his hand dripping blood on the floor and his eyes darting around the room as he breathes heavily, regaining his breath. He looks at the closet and then away again, failing to see a threat, and Marco breathes a huge, silent, sigh of relief.

He knows these are the Winchesters straight away. He'd seen them on the news, after the Leviathans doppelganged them. Funny, he had no idea that Sam would be so freakishly tall.

“Cas! Cas?” Dean is yelling, shaking Castiel roughly. Sam joins him and Marco blinks as he walks _right through the wing_ on the ground. Amazingly, the humans can't see them. All those feathers, all the bones and muscles and flesh – nothing. As far as the Winchesters are concerned, those wings aren't really there.

Marco watches in astonishment as Dean simply throws the wooden wing-splints to one side, unable to figure out why they're lying on top of his friend; the strings Marco had tied around them have come undone, so there's no resistance. Marco's eyes dart up to the remaining wing hooked on the wall and wonders how the brothers are going to get out of there when their pal is still stuck fast and they can't see it. This should be interesting, in both physical and existential terms.

Castiel is finally stirring, unable to ignore Dean's hand patting at his face. His eyes blink open and he stares up at his saviour blearily. He doesn't speak, but Marco notices that Dean's hand is in his and he looks as though he's never letting go. After a moment, Castiel's fingers close around Dean's hand in return. It's probably all he can do, given how fucked up he is, but Dean looks relieved despite that.

“It's okay, we've got you now,” Dean says, trying to smile.

“His arm's broken,” Sam observes, and shakes off his coat. He pulls off his shirt and rolls it up, turning it into a makeshift sling. It probably wouldn't have been big enough with anyone else's shirt, but Marco reckons Sam must buy them with orangutan arms or something, because it fits just fine.

“H-how?” Castiel asks. Or at least, that's what Marco supposes, as he's too far away to hear him through the doors of the closet.

“Got a tip about Crowley selling angel feathers on the black market,” Sam explains, tying the sling in a knot on Castiel's shoulder. “Followed the leads here.”

Castiel doesn't say anything else. His head lolls forward as Sam nudges him to fashion the sling, and Marco assumes he's out of it again. The Winchesters exchange a glance and then, working as a team, they straighten up with the guy held in a fireman's carry between them.

Of course, they only go a few steps before the wing still hooked on the wall yanks Castiel backwards, making him almost slip out of their grip. He jerks awake again with a pain-filled gasp, quite clearly scaring the humans half to death in the process. “What? What is it?” Dean asks, panicked.

Castiel can barely lift his head, but he rolls his eyes around to the wall. Even the _humans_ must be able to see that there's a foot of chain being held away from the wall with a hook on the end, stretched out in mid-air. There's a silence as they stare and stare, totally baffled, before Sam says suddenly, “Dean. It's his wing. I think the hook is in it... We need to... Wow, this is weird.”

Dean gives him a baffled look and they place Castiel on the floor again, where he lies limply, like a wet dishrag. The brothers walk over to the hook – _right through the wing itself,_ and boy, Marco is never going to get used to that – and stare up at it.

“So his wing is caught on that thing?” Dean asks, sounding totally freaked out.

“I think so.”

They stare at it some more, then Sam – who's the tallest of the two – reaches up and feels around. His fingers go through the wing but he can't feel a damn thing. After a few moments he lowers his hand. “We should just take the hook with us. When Cas wakes up he can tell us how to remove it.”

“Uh, yeah. Invisible bird surgery isn't really our thing.” Shaking his head, Dean unties the chain from the hook and holds it in his hand. The wing, unknown to him, has folded with the movement. Marco waits to see if Dean will move the hook too far or if he'll twist the wing the wrong way with it, but he actually does something pretty smart: he hooks it on the back of Castiel's shirt. The wing tucks in towards his shoulders and the angel barely stirs, so it didn't hurt him. Huh. Lucky.

Sam stares around them and whispers, “Do you think his other wing is here somewhere?”

“No idea. But we'd better make sure we don't trap it in the car door or anything.”

“How?”

They stare at each other, nonplussed, before Dean shrugs. “On three?”

They count down, then lift the former angel in the air and carry him out of the room. They pass close enough to the closet for Marco to see that Dean is sweating, Sam is huffing and Castiel is a deathly, ugly gray color that doesn't bode well for him, even now that he's in the hands of his friends.

And then... they're gone.

Marco waits for a long, long time. It gets hot in the closet, but still he doesn't move. He only moves when his cellphone beeps, and even then he waits to check that nobody outside the closet heard the noise.

He looks down at the text message from Sally. _Winchesters on the way,_ it says. _Don't let them get the bastard or Crowley says you're dead meat._

Marco leans forward until his head hits the doors, closing his eyes.

Oh well. At least this time, in Hell, he'll be able to tell the guys that the rumors about Dean Winchester and the angel being fuckbuddies are absolutely true. It'll earn him some kudos, if nothing else. And with any luck, Crowley will let him topside to see the sun again before the next end of the world.

The end of the world comes along fairly regularly, though, so that probably won't take long.

“Fuckin' angel,” he grunts.

 

* * *

Sequel: [Wing Man](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1002759)  



End file.
